


Like a Fever, Rattling Bones

by Camorra



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Crack Fest, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-09-02 07:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16782709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: It's an alpha's world, he's just trying to survive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drx/gifts).



> varrix made me do it  
> thanks to yu for giving it a lookie-loo because i continue to be unable to spell.

He hasn’t slept, but five a.m. seems like as good of a time as any to give up. Discretion is the better part of valor, and all that.

Shower, slide into some clothes. Coffee, consider breakfast. Decide against. And not because the closest thing in the kitchen to cereal is whiskey, because it’s not necessary.

And then take the pills. Innocuous little white things, barely larger than grains of rice, but so important.

The recommended dose for omega pheromone suppressants is three milligrams. Shiki takes twelve of that experimental shit from South Africa that might either prevent heats entirely or help him grow a third arm.

Honestly, he doesn’t mind either outcome, a third arm might come in very handy. But so far he hasn’t experienced a heat in going on seven years now _or_ the beginnings of a third appendage. Success.

But the morning routine doesn’t stop there. It continues with spritzes of one of those god-awful colognes that the aging alphas bathe in to pretend that their pheromones are the reason they aren't getting second and third glances form fertile young omegas and the pre-teen ones use instead of showers.

And with that, his disguise is complete. Transformed from the whimpering dregs of society into something that commands respect in a half-hour flat. Impressive, if he does say so himself.

There's no reason for him not to go to work, so he does. After cleaning up the coffee. And straightening the pillows on the couch a bit. It's not a “nesting instinct” or whatever the textbooks seem fit to call it these days, it's just basic tidiness. Taking pride in where you live. Not being a goddamn slob. It's not his fault society presses people into neat little tiny boxes as soon as they present. Or that it’s just more pleasant to live in a tidy place.

He cruises into his empty satellite office and makes himself another cup of coffee before taking a deep breath and using about an entire of bottle of febreeze on the place to make it smell like _not_ a locker room.

Not that locker room _plus_ lavender spring sunshine is a great combination, but it helps. A little. He’s not sure that anything could help the smell at this point.

Not that it's their faults per se, it's simply what happens when alphas are crammed into a small space together, their scents coat every goddamn surface, trying to establish what little fucking territory they’re allowed to have.

It's best for Shiki’s headaches if he neutralizes the odor as best he can now. And it's not just the constant, mingling stench of a thousand alphas crying out that they’re in prime fucking age, it’s about stopping the petty disputes before they start. Just last week, two fucking idiots nearly tore each other's throats out over a goddamn stapler.

It’s irritating on the personal level and rage-inducing when you consider that these are the sorts that are allowed to run the country, but nobody asked him what he thought.

Well. They do _now._

“Uh, it smells like a flower field debauched by the world’s largest orgy in here,” Akabayashi says, pushing the door open, bringing with him the scent of glue, iron and char.

“It was Thursday’s team building activity, didn’t you get the memo?”

“Damn, _knew_ I should have come here instead of main HQ.”

“Good to know you have so much to do that you can just wander wherever you please.”

“Hey, now,” Akabayashi says, smirking, “don’t be jealous, ’s part of my job. Not all of us have the type of personality that lets us stare at paperwork all day like some sort of gremlin.”

“Do you have some reason to be _here_?”

It’s early enough that the rest of Shiki’s staff haven’t even shown up yet, and they have the fear of God instilled in them. Besides, he knows from early-morning staff meeting experiences that Akabayashi _hates_ early mornings. It’s the time of day that his rage simmers the closest to the surface. More likely, then, that Akabayashi’s been out terrorizing the locals and decided to stop by and pick on Shiki for sport and amusement.

A smirk curls onto Akabayashi’s face, slow and menacing.

Well this is turning out to be a fantastic day.

He reacts to the smell even before he’s fully processed who it belongs to. He wants to run toward it and bury his face in it and run in the opposite direction and hide at the same damn time. It’s cloying and sweet like rotted apples and it’s enough to make his teeth fall out at the meet hint of it.

“Shiki,” Orihara says, opening Shiki’s office door and strutting into the room like he owns the place. He is, without a doubt, the cockiest, _ballsiest_ omega Shiki has ever had the dubious honor of meeting. “How’s my favorite outlaw today?” Orihara hops onto the edge of Shiki’s desk, leaning far into Shiki’s personal space. “Been a good boy?”

Orihara is also the most _forward_ one he’s ever seen outside one of those crappy TV shows. That he doesn’t _watch_ he’s just _heard of._

_Obviously._

“Orihara,” he says, and his voice is level and straight even though he’s not feeling either, “I’ve asked you to wait in the lobby.”

“But it’s scary out there,” Orihara purrs, leaning forward, “so many alphas, so many scents. I feel _much_ safer in here.”

And probably the closest to being onto him.

“Has someone been giving you trouble?” Shiki snaps, and it’s far easier than he would like to put the jealous spin on it that an alpha would have.

Orihara smirks, tilting his head. “No, I guess it’s just something about _you,_ ne? _”_

It’s that he’s an omega in disguise, isn’t it? No amount of perfumes and pills can hide that. He’s _safe._ “Perhaps,” Shiki says. Best move this onto to business before he does something stupid. Like lick Orihara’s neck to see if he tastes as good as he smells. He can’t count on both hands how close he and Orihara have come to banging in some secluded space, just inches apart, staring deep into each other’s eyes. “But onto business. I have a job for you.”

“All work and no play makes jack a dull boy,” Orihara says, but leans back out of Shiki’s bubble. “What is it this time? Drug smugglers? Weapons smugglers? Animal smugglers?” Orihara pauses, “you certainly do quite a bit of smuggling, perhaps you’re more of a logistics company than a yakuza family? Like UPS.”

“Neither of those,” Shiki says drily. “Just a local gambling ring.”

“Boo,” Orihara says, putting on a fake pout. “Which one?”

“Amphisbaena,” Shiki says, leaning back. “We don’t have much information other than a name, unfortunately. They’re notoriously difficult to track down.”

“Amphisbaena,” Orihara says, rolling the name around his mouth like it’s something exotic and delicious. Shiki can think of two better things—

_Focus._

_“_ The snake,” Orihara says. “Wonder if there’s anything to that?”

“Forever eating its own tail? Doesn’t seem the best icon for a gambling ring.”

“Hmm, you’re thinking of the ouroboros,” Orihara says, “the amphisbaena is the one with two heads, Greek in origin. Said to give the power to attract lovers of both sexes if eaten.”

“Is it?”

“But some find that they don’t need mystical snakes to attract anybody.” And like that, Orihara is back in Shiki’s bubble, foot suspiciously close to Shiki’s crotch.

“Perhaps that’s the meaning behind the choice of symbol.”

“Perhaps,” Orihara echoes, and he’s really very close now. So close that he’s all Shiki can smell, scent swimming in his nostrils and making his head spin. “Perhaps.”

“I’m sure you’ll find out,” Shiki says, pushing away from the desk. “I look forward to your answer.”

Orihara’s frowning at him, brow crinkled in what looks like bewilderment and perhaps a bit of confusion before both clear and a strange sort of light come into his eyes.

“Of course I will, I have a habit of getting what I want.”

Orihara is a professional, really.

But mostly, he’s a child.

Shiki does get periodic updates on the Amphisbaena group, always from an untraceable number, always detailed.

He also gets texts from Orihara, barely this side of appropriate, word play dancing on the brink of being suggestive without anything being particularly off.

And if that wasn’t enough, Orihara is everywhere.

“Hmm, eggplants. Good choice,” Orihara will say, brushing against him at the grocery store.

“I think super soft is the way to go,” Orihara will say at the drugstore, watching Shiki weight two tissue boxes in his hand, “by the way, what size are you? I always think it’s better for everyone if the fit is perfect, yes?”

“Presumptuous of you.”

“I prefer _prepared._ ”

Everywhere.

“I think the chicken here is suspect,” Orihara says, pushing open the door of the restaurant Shiki was about to go in.

“Out a bit late, no?”

“Hm, Dazai. I prefer Nakahara myself.”

 _Everywhere_.

And, frankly, it might even be a bright spot in his day compared to the rest.

“We can smell it, you know,” Akabayashi says one day, casually perusing his handful of paperwork. He’s run out of civilians to terrorize and Aozaki’s off to, ah, satisfy his partner during their heat.

He’s not saying the last part might have affected Akabayashi’s mood the most, but he also wouldn’t say it within Akabayashi’s earshot if you wanted to keep his head.

“Smell what?” Shiki says, sipping on his coffee.

“Your heat,” Akabayashi says, laughing when Shiki whips his head around. “Ah, don’t be so _sensitive.”_

 _“_ I don’t have heats,” Shiki says waspishly.

“We know. You’d be far more personable and cuddly if you— hey, _hey_ , what you planning to do with that stapler? Wait, _no_.”

He manages to avoid Orihara for a solid three days through the cunning use of lying and sending subordinates out to do his dark bidding.

That is, until his phone gives an ominous happy little chime.

_I’ve finished~~ Found some juicy little details too, might wanna hurry up and stop avoiding me :3c_

Great, that’s _just_ what he needed today. Ever.

 _You’re going to end up fucking him,_ says a little voice in the back of his head. It doesn’t sound terribly concerned. _Give in._

But. That’s not a good idea.

_Why?_

Because _Orihara._ This figurative (not literal, unfortunately— wait, _no_ ) pain in his ass that smells like sweet peppermint and coconuts and rainbows.

And he has to sit in one of the tiny little spaces that Orihara loves and Not Touch. Something that’s gotten monumentally harder as the years have crawled on and Orihara went from the cocky, cagey omega upstart that no one thought would make it to a force and institution in his own right.

Orihara makes him _stupid._

But Orihara is also damn good and hasn’t smarmed and clawed his way to where he is without a solid base of sheer skill, so Shiki texts back: _meet later today?_

He should have specified a place. He should have specified a time.

Because Orihara appears in the lobby in five minutes.

Orihara meets him at the door, and he smells like apples on the wrong side of fresh and caramel. “Shiki,” he says, “long time no see, ne? I felt so _lonely_ without my favorite client.” 

“A terrible tragedy,” Shiki says, beckoning Orihara into his office. He makes himself comfortable on Shiki’s couch like he owns the place.

“I’ve found them,” Orihara says, “and better, I’ve been invited to an event. A night of rubbing elbows with the elite that like to live this side of the law, courting danger.”

“Excellent,” Shiki says, because it really is. It’s impressive, and there’s really no need to be thrifty with praise. “When will you have the report?”

“Hmm, so that’s the thing,” Orihara says, a finger on his lip. “It’s the not the sort of event I can trust to one of my subordinates, I’m sure you can understand. Delicate work to be done, details to be picked up.”

Shiki is very uncomfortable all of a sudden.

“And I, of course, cannot go by myself.” Is it intentional that Izaya drags a hand down his side, accenting the lines of his body? Of course it is, and judging by Orihara’s smirk, Shiki reeks of arousal.What, it happens. Okay, maybe not with this sort of frequency since he discovered what his dick would do if he rubbed it enough, but _still._ “A lone omega in a crowd of the rich and entitled?” Orihara sidles closer and it’s _Shiki_ that feels like prey. Despite what those stupid books say about biology and roles and whatever, Orihara is a predator and and damn sly one at that. “That wouldn’t do, now would it?”

“If you’re asking for an increase in your fee to hire protection—”

“I’m not,” Orihara says. “Who knows what damage someone, ah, not briefed on the situation could do. Besides.”

Orihara is close. When did he let Orihara get this close? Why did he let Orihara get this close. This is why people get assassinated, because someone fluttered their eyelashes, and smelled like heaven, and had a mind like a razor blade and got too damn close. Not that Orihara’s gonna stab him with a _knife,_ with any luck—

_Focus._

“I don’t trust anyone as much as you.”

Oh fuck.

“A terrible idea, really.”

“Is it?” Orihara’s smiling with pointed teeth and red eyes.

He’s _screwed._

Apparently his white suit won’t fly.

 _Think cookie-cutter business-man,_ Izaya texts, _there are million of them about, I’m sure you can get the general idea, ne?_

Shiki can get the general idea, thanks. He’s not stupid enough to think that swaggering into an underground gambling ring operation in yakuza territory is going to react well to a clear yakuza swaggering in.

He’s got some older, cheaper suits skulking about in the corners of his closet from the days before he could afford nice things. He takes off his jewelry, debates leaving a single ring on as a decoy but decides against it.

It’s not necessary.

Orihara is impressed by how unimpressive he is.

“I almost looked right over you!” he says with far too much cheer, tugging down the hemline of his dress. “You look exactly like an overworked salaryman.”

“You look like a cheap prostitute.”

“Thank you,” Orihara says, looking genuinely flattered. “I tried my best.”

It’s maddening. He looks stunning when, by all rights, he should look like something the back alleyways spit out.

“There are male prostitutes,” Shiki says, but extends his arm for Orihara to grab anyway.

“I’m sure you’re the expert,” Orihara says pointedly, “but this is part of my disguise. No one would match a female prostitute to the male information broker, ne?”

Shiki would agree, if Orihara had done anything to disguise himself other than femme it up just the tiniest. The problem is that Orihara was already firmly in the androgynous beauty category, easily swinging either way with the addition of accessories. He still looks like himself, easily recognizable.

But there’s nothing to be gained by pressing and making Orihara uncomfortable. Besides, it’s none of his goddamn business what Orihara wants to wear.

And it’s not like Orihara isn’t absolutely, blindingly gorgeous with all that pale leg—

 _Focus_.

He’s not here to eat Orihara, no matter how much he might want to and how much that sugar-sweet scent seems to be reeling him in.

He’s here on business.

Yes. Business.

Orihara leads him around the block, sashaying and humming and Shiki is sure he’d be skipping if he wasn’t wearing heels that are just this side of being deadly weapons, and Orihara leads him like a lemur to a cliff to an door set in the filthiest alleyway he’s seen in this whole city.

Orihara gives three smart raps on the door before an eye panel slides open.

Because Shiki’s life is rapidly degenerating into a movie.

“Password?”

A bad movie.

“Lead to gold,” Orihara says, voice pitched several octaves higher.

A horrible movie.

But the door swings open nonetheless and Orihara sashays in, tugging Shiki along helplessly.

He’s not sure what to expect. He’s been to permanent casinos, the sort that try and warp time until you don’t know what day it is or if the sun even exists anymore.

He’s been to the type that the yakuza run. Both types. The modern type, with glitz and glamour and glitter and strippers and all the trappings of the modern age. And the type of the ages long past. The kind where they sit on the floor and the officiators are barely dressed to prevent cheating and the weight of history and what the yakuza used to be is heavy in the air.

This is neither of those.

This is the quiet sort, furtive and heavy with desperation. It’s men hunched over cards like their lives depend on it, the smell of booze heavy in the air. It’s the delicate jubilance of a win, fragile like glass and just as sharp when it comes shattering down around them.

There are, of course, those waiting immediately in the wings to pounce to divest all and any of their cash.

But there’s the undercurrent of danger that lurks in the corners that makes the whole thing so delicious and addictive. Will it be the cops that bust the door down, dragging everyone off to sit in a tiny cell? With it be the Atsuku-gumi, the yakuza family that tonight’s venue infringes on? That one is less likely to end well for everybody, the Atsuku-gumi are infamous for their, ah, _lack of restraint_.

Orihara had hinted that he had some sort of plan, so Shiki lets himself be led around by the arm, weaving around tables with tired-looking dealers, apparently missing whatever crucial element Orihara’s looking for. He eventually settles on one far back in the corner, far away from any of the easy exits, but one that gives a vantage of the entire room like a monarch over their kingdom.

Orihara swings onto Shiki’s lap like it’s a throne made for him, like Shiki is nothing more than a piece of furniture he brought along for looks.

Which is very much what Shiki is, now that he thinks about it.

“Deal me in,” Shiki says with as much authority as he can muster. Which is apparently enough, as his money is snatched and he gets a set of chips. In hindsight, he probably should have checked what game it is before he slapped down cash.

Oh well. He’ll write it off as a business expense.

“Haven’t seen you here before,” a blonde woman says, tapping her cigarette on the ashtray. Orihara sends a terribly not-subtle elbow into his stomach.

“Recently invited,” Shiki says, watching his cards being dealt. He’s pretty sure it’s poker. He hopes it’s poker, it’s the only game he can play with any level of skill.

“By who?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Shiki says coldly, and hopes that’s the right answer. The woman gives a shrug and turns back to the game, so he must have gotten close.

“Who invited you?” Orihara says in that awful high-pitched tone of his. It’s not far enough off from his normal tone that Shiki can’t tell Orihara is entirely full of shit.

Of course, the woman’s lips curl, “no one of course, It comes with being the boss.”

Orihara titters. “Wow, it’s you? I thought it was some big scary alpha, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Of course, he’s the top boss. But I’m the one that carries out his orders.”

Shiki does his best to look cowed but trying to hide it. Acting is hard. He’s not sure how well he manages, so he puts his bitch face back on.

Much better.

“Wow,” Orihara breathes, “that’s amazing. It must be _so_ hard.”

“It’s a struggle,” the woman says. “But the pay out is entirely worth it, wouldn’t you say?”

Orihara giggles again.

Shiki loses a substantial sum of money.

He’s not saying the two events are connected, but.

“Wouldn’t you say, Orihara Izaya?”

Oh, fuck.

“Wow, look at the time,” Izaya says, standing suddenly. “So late, wouldn’t you say, darling? Time to go.”

Shiki stands, grabbing Orihara by the wrist and lurching them both towards the nearest exit. There’s a tree of a man in the way, and Shiki’s a toothpick of a man, but he has something nobody expects: the balls to charge them.

He leaves the man spinning, throwing the door open with Orihara in tow.

“Slow down,” Orihara says, which makes no sense because Orihara is the fastest thing he’s seen outside of Aozaki scarfing down a hamburger until he remembers the shoes.

But they can’t slow down, goons with enough muscle mass to make a gorilla feel ashamed are barreling towards them, so Shiki does the only thing his adrenaline will let him do: swing Orihara over his shoulder and keep going.

He realizes after five steps that he’s not in shape enough for this, but there’s no time to stop now.

Besides, Orihara’s ass is _right_ next to his— _focus._

“Left!” Orihara calls, and Shiki obeys.

“Right!”

“Right!”

“Can’t you go any faster?”

No, as a matter of fact, he can barely get enough oxygen in his lungs. He can’t _go faster._

“Up ahead,” Orihara calls, and Shiki ducks into a doorway, and Orihara shimmies out of his grasp, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. “I have an apartment.”

Those are the best four words Shiki has ever heard. Even better than: _clorox now on sale_ and _Akabayashi won’t be in._

They tumble into the door, Orihara slamming it behind him, laughing breathlessly, giddily. Shiki also panting somewhat breathlessly and giddily. Orihara is so much heavier than he looks, not because Shiki is _out of shape,_ or anything.

And Orihara is so close, close enough that he can see the flecks in his eyes and he’s all he can smell with each gasping, rasping inhale.

And he smells _divine._

It’s really not his fault that he wants to eat Orihara from the inside out. And Orihara wants him to, can see it in the way he bites his lips and his eyes keep settling on Shiki and flicking away like Orihara even knows the definition of coy.

And so, Shiki does. He’s so responsive and soft, groaning and moaning without shame, panting as Shiki works down his neck, clawing at Shiki’s back with blunt nails.

It’s so easy to see why omegas are a coveted prize with one spread under you, eyes glassy and cheeks pink, thin chest heaving.

God, he smells just about _edible_.

And so he does. With Orihara just about squealing all the while.

And for all the magazines say that _omegas can’t fuck_ and _topping just isn’t in their nature,_ Orihara doesn’t seem to have a single damn complaint. The opposite, in fact, if his half-choked off moans and constant repetition of Shiki’s name like it’s something holy is any indication.

It was a long time coming, and come they did.

In hindsight, he has no idea why he thought sleeping with Orihara would be a bad idea.

It’s an _excellent_ idea.

“Oh _fuck,”_ Orihara pants into his shoulder. “Oh _god.”_

It’s quite the ego boost.

“Yes, _there.”_

And it’s so very convenient.

Orihara will pop out of nowhere when he’s buying socks or at his door or at his place of work and they’ll meander over to the nearest semi-private surface and.

Well.

Activities vary.

But pleasure is guaranteed.

It’s the best lifestyle change he’s made since he started smoking.

Orihara goes boneless, sagging against him. “See? We could have been doing this for _ages_ if you hadn’t been so stubborn.”

And Shiki has no real argument against that.

Especially when Orihara curls up under his chin, clinging to Shiki like a little lost kitten, practically purring when Shiki runs his hands down his spine.

There’s a rap on the door to Shiki’s office.

“You about done? I have some paperwork Shiki needs to look at.”

“For now,” Orihara says, and Akabayashi swings open the door, not even blinking at the naked Orihara on Shiki’s desk.

“Since when do you care about paperwork?”

Akabayashi ignores him, “there’s something about buying speciality dog leashes that you need to sign off on.”

“Kinky.”

“Unlike having sex at work.”

Orihara shrugs a pale shoulder. “What can I say? The heart wants what the heart wants. And it’s the best dick I’ve ever had.”

“The Awakusu-kai pride ourselves on excellent service,” Akabayashi says.

And Shiki’s so filled with liquid warm content that he doesn’t strangle Akabayashi where he stands.

He wakes up with a familiar, _awful_ feeling.

A swarm of bees have taken residence under his skin along with the deep and desperate desire to be fucked until he can’t remember his own name.

“Fuck,” he says.

 _You should get on that,_ his body agrees.

And he could. He could buy the best prostitutes, he could be fucked seven ways till sunday. He could fuck all he wanted.

 _What’s stopping you?_ His dick demands. He’s rather inclined to agree with, he’s half-way to his phone even before his mind starts screaming.

 _Contraceptives!_ It says, screeching like a banshee. _The heat suppressants didn’t work, and it’s too damn late for contraceptives!_

Do they even work like that? Too big of a chance. Just him, his right hand, and a rather impressive collection of sex toys.

Just as God intended.

Oh! Work. Damn.

Better get that squared away before he’s too far gone into an incoherent mess begging whoever’s on the other end to come over and fu—

Squared away.

Right.

The real problem with being in the yakuza is that while there’s a strict hierarchy, it doesn’t exactly tell you who to call when you’re going to be spending roughly the next four days with a vibrator shoved up your ass jerking off until your hand hurts.

He’s pretty sure Mikiya couldn’t give a flying fuck if he doesn’t show up, but he’d be pretty pissed if he went looking for a whipping boy and Shiki wasn’t there to take it. Take all of his big, throbbing—

He calls Akabayashi instead, not entirely thinking through what he’s going to say until Akabayashi’s low voice spits out, “ _what?”_

“I’m not going to be at work for the next few days,” Shiki says, sending a sideways glance at the clock. Five o’clock. Fuck.

“ _What, you fucking sick or something?”_

“Yes,” Shiki says. Adding a fake sounding cough on the end.

“ _Great. I’ll cover your ass for you. Or pound it. Let me know.”_

The call ends with a click before Shiki can ask just what, exactly, Akabayashi meant by that.

He’ll worry about it later.

For now, he’s going to put on an episode of _Omega Diaries_ and wait to be overtaken by the all-consuming lust.

  


Life is torture.

God he hasn’t been this horny since… _the last time he was this horny._ And he’s pretty sure he was balls deep in Orihara then.

Orihara.

He’d be nice to have here right about now.

That oddly sweet scent. It verges on too sweet, almost pungently so. And it’s so real, so—

“Shiki!”

Oh _no._

“Akabayashi told me you were out sick, I came by to—” There’s a choked noise from somewhere out in the hall.

Shiki should stand up, probably. Should defend himself. Should probably stop masturbating, too.

Nah, he’s an omega. It happens, and Orihara should understand that.

Orihara staggers into the room, hand clapped over his mouth. “I thought you were sick.”

“I am,” Shiki says. Orihara smells nice. _Really_ nice. He should definitely get closer and investigate. “Sick with _want_.”

Orihara looks stricken. “I’m not sure what’s worse, this or your pun. You're clearly not in your right mind, I have to go.”

Wait. No. They can still fuck. Fucking’s a really good idea, why didn’t he call Orihara sooner? Where’d he put his phone?

“Stay,” Shiki says, and he sounds desperate. He hears a small sound, somewhere on the edge of his conscious. He thinks it’s his pride crying.

“Shiki,” Izaya says, pressing back against the wall. “I can’t be here.” Though he’s not looking like he’s trying very hard to leave anymore.

“Stay,” Shiki repeats, and he was fairly certain his legs weren’t working a moment ago, but apparently anything’s possible in pursuit of sex and wow Orihara’s coat is so fuzzy and nice. How did he not notice before?

Amazing.

So soft.

“I can’t,” Orihara’s saying, not sounding very convinced. He smells _amazing,_ like caramel, like burnt coffee, like pineapples. It makes Shiki wanna roll up in it and live forever right there.

“No worries, no pregnancy.”

That gives Orihara the strength to shove him off.

“Don’t you get it, I’m not an omega, I’m an _alpha.”_

_Oh fuck._

His ass vibrates and he has a sudden, sick thought that he knows _exactly_ where he put his phone.

Oh, no, he’s just sitting on it.

Save the dramatic suicide for another day.

His entire _body_ hurts, like he’s been dragged through the streets on the back of motorcycle then run over a few times for good measure before gargling sandpaper to rid himself of the memory.

Showers. Showers are good. He staggers up off the bed. And the room doesn’t spin like it usually does. Huh. Must have been a short one, then. Usually he’s dying of hunger right about now. But a staggering step has him knocking a lamp off the table, shattering on the floor with an ear-splitting crack.

There’s a clatter from outside the door and Shiki has just enough time to tense before Orihara bursts into the room, what looks like one of Shiki’s scarves wrapped around his face, leaving only wild-looking eyes with deep-bags underneath peeking over top.

He’s also wielding what looks like one of the spray-bottles Shiki uses to water the plants.

Orihara’s eyes snap down to the lamp and then back up to Shiki.

“Orihara,” Shiki rasps, then stops. Why is he here?

Oh, they fucked, obviously. Having another omega during your heat is an excellent idea. No chance of accidental pregnancies. Shiki’s in the middle of patting himself on the mental back for a job well done when his senses report in.

Orihara doesn’t smell like an omega. Orihara smells like a wary alpha.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

_Oh fuck._

He’s pregnant, isn’t he? Sure, he’s _older,_ but that doesn’t mean he’s _infertile and—_

Did.

Did Orihara just _squirt_ him?

“Did you just _squirt_ me?”

Oddly enough, Orihara relaxes, like Shiki’s incredulity isn’t the only thing standing between him and an early grave. “Oh, thank goodness,” Orihara says, pulling down his scarf. “I wasn’t sure I could take another offer to ‘breed you until my cock runs dry,’ it would have seriously damaged our working relationship, ne?”

“I’m pretty sure our working relationship has been moderately compromised.”

“Nonsense,” Orihara says brightly, “take a shower and we’ll get down to discussing how we spent my heat.”

Bossy.

An interesting look on Orihara.

A shower doesn’t really make anything much clearer but his head and he feels mostly like himself once he’s cleaned and clothed.

Orihara has made himself welcome in Shiki’s kitchen, sitting with his hands wrapped around a mug of what looks like tea. Shiki’s pretty sure that the only tea he had is the unopened box from roughly seven years ago, when it seemed like it was a good idea.

Orihara must be desperate.

“Well, let’s get our stories straight, shall we? It’s always the little details that trip liars up and I don’t want—”

A look at the clock confirms that it’s just the slightest bit too early for day drinking. Might as well get this over with then.

“I want to keep the baby.”

Orihara chokes, hands flying to his throat as he spews his tea all over Shiki’s nice, clean table. “ _What?_ ”

“The baby. I want to keep it.”

“What _baby?”_

Oh, please. “The one you helped make? You’re an alpha and still here and were here during my heat, do you think I’m stupid?”

Orihara’s lip curls. “I think I have enough brain power to not hump anything that’ll stay still long enough to let me when I get horny, but your confidence is truly inspiring.”

“So you expect me to believe—”

“That I didn’t rape you? Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I know it must be amazing to consider, really, but I’m not an amoral beast.” Orihara chances another sip from his tea. “Though I did feed you. You’re entirely welcome, by the way. My fingers are still recovering from _that_ trauma, they’ve never been so well licked and never want to be again.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Ah, that,” Orihara steeples his fingers. “Your hormones triggered mine, I reeked of alpha. My cover would have been blown wide open. A lot of work, down the drain in an afternoon.” Orihara tilts his head. “I’m sure you understand.”

He does. But.

“That hardly means you had to stay here. It’s easy enough for you to call a taxi, definitely within your power to get one that’s discreet.”

Orihara seems to falter for a moment, blinking. But he quickly regains his footing, sliding a smirk on his face like he hasn’t a care.

“You see,” Orihara says. “I had an idea.”

Oh no.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks yu, for looking it over. much love.

He’s not _running_ from Izaya. He just has place to be and people to see. He lives his life in the fast lane, is all.

“It’s really beneficial for both of us,” Izaya says from the doorway to the bedroom as Shiki rips his sodden sheets from the bed. He’s not even sure washing twenty times can save them now, they’ll have to be tossed. “Rent aside, rooming with an actual Alpha will help your scent, ne? You’ll simply smell like a bonded Alpha. And I’ll reek of Omega. Win-win.”

“Fascinating,” Shiki says.

“Not to mention the sex,” Izaya says as Shiki tries to get his coffee machine to just _brew faster._ “Far more convenient than in the back of a car. And a lot more time for the more… _experimental_ things, ne?”

“Is that right?” Shiki says, debating just leaving his coffee there to fend for itself. He’ll sure it’ll probably forgive him eventually. And he and the coffee machine at the office are on good terms.

“So that’s a yes, then?” Izaya calls as Shiki slams the door behind him, definitely, not running, hoping beyond hope that that is that.

Akabayashi is in his office.

Probably there to annoy the hell out of Shiki, but possibly there on a mission to uncover some dirt so that Shiki will forever be under his thumb because he found Shiki’s secret stash of haikus that may or may not be about those idiots that surround him at work, he’s not gonna say one way or another.

Oh, wait, he asked him to be there. That’s right.

“Feeling better?” Akabayashi says, casting sly eyes over the top of his magazine. It says: _15 Ways to Please Your Man_ in pink text across the top. “You look… _better.”_

 _“_ Much better. Now get out of my office, I have work to do.”

“Aww, now don’t be like that,” Akabayashi says. “I sent Orihara over to take care of you, don’t I get a little thanks?”

Did he get thanks?

 _Did_ _he get thanks?_

Sure, he can have _some thanks._

“He was very helpful,” Shiki says, trying not to spit it out as he tries to subtly reach for the stapler. If you press it right, the staples fly out with a truly amazing amount of force, not unlike a gun.

“Oh, I’m glad,” Akabayashi says, making haste for the door. “I find getting laid usually improved my mood, but I guess there has to be someone out there it turns into a god-awful bitch.”

The staple clangs dully into the wall where Akabayashi’s head _used_ to be.

Drats.

Next time.

Otherwise, work is _amazing._

Amazing-ly _horrid._

Akabayashi has clearly taken the opportunity to go through anything and everything in his desk. Paperwork has Akabayashi’s utterly horrendous scrawl looping across the page, his pens are everywhere, and his computer password has been changed to _ShikiSucksDick._

And that was only in the first fifteen minutes.

“Hey, boss,” one of his underlings says, poking his head cautiously through the door, eyeing Shiki’s stapler with the trepidation it deserves, “one of the shipments isn’t where it’s supposed to be.”

The headache starts. “Which one of the shipments?”

“The. The one for the Tsukiyamas?”

Shiki doesn’t need to glance at his phone to double check dates, it’s been embedded in his memory, blazoned across the front of his mind. He’s pretty certain that if Orihara hadn’t invaded his apartment, he would have tried to show up for the hand-off _personally,_ even if it meant humping the sidewalk like the world’s most fucked-up caterpillar to get there. That’s how big of a deal it is.

It’s a big deal, _who’s delivery date was five days ago._

“The live crocodile.”

“Yes.”

“The extremely rare, very endangered, stupidly expensive albino crocodile?”

“Yup.”

“The one that had a delivery date five days ago?”

“Yeah.”

The headache bitch slaps him full force across the back of the head. “What, _exactly,_ do you mean _it’s not where it’s supposed to be?”_

And that’s how he ends up in a warehouse in Hibiya with seven of his men weilding steaks attached to the ends of ropes.

“Do alligators even eat steak?” one of his men says. Yoshida, he thinks.

Which would have been a great thing to ask _before_ he bought enough steak to feed a small army.

“Are we even sure the alligator is still here? Maybe it’s in the sewer,” Iada says nervous. “It happens in America, I saw it in a documentary once.”

“Maybe it’s dead,” Todokai says, swinging his alligator summoner lazily. “Maybe it starved.”

“You better hope not,” Shiki says. “Or it’s not just your pinkies you’ll be losing.”

Shiki _meant_ he would find who lost a fucking alligator and personally see to it that they were a primemeal for any alligator that _did_ live in the sewer, but they all pale and cover their crotches and honestly, he’s not terribly surprised. He knows the office culture, cutting off their dicks would be just as much damage as slicing through a throat, considering how much thinking they do with the wrong head.

Shiki’s flexible. He’ll cut off whatever works.

“Right. We’ll start at the crate and move out from there. Shout when you find it so we can help trap it. Which one of you has the new pen?”

His men look at each other nervously.

Finally, Yoshida clears his throat. “We. Um. Didn’t bring one?”

“And why,” Shiki says, quietly, watching as his men seem to curl into themselves in an attempt to make themselves smaller, “would you not bring one?”

“Well, um,” Iada says, nervously, then rallies. “We thought we could use the one already here.”

“Oh, did you now?”

“Yes.”

“I know that it might confuse you enough to keep _you_ trapped,” Shiki says, wishing Iada was close enough that he could get a grip on his collar without telegraphing his intentions too much. The key to chucking your subordinate into a ruined crate is _surprise._ “But obviously the _huge damn hole_ in the side let it out once, why would it hold it _now?_ ”

“I brought duct tape to fix it?”

This is going to be a _long_ day.

Izaya waits until they’ve searched the entire damn warehouse, top to bottom, before giving him a ping on his phone.

_You’re hissing up the wrong tree, dar~ling~_

Which is nonsensical enough that Shiki’s tempted to just ignore it.

But just as he has that thought, his phone pings again. _Try the other lizard in your life, ne? :3_

Kazamoto opens his door and Shiki feels like an idiot. The scent of alligator is so strong that it nearly bowls him over and has him weeping on his knees. And he thought steak on a string was an effective method.

Maybe each heat makes you successively more stupid. That’s what his biology book said, and he thought it was bullshit, but now he’s not entirely sure.

“To what do I owe the honor?” Kazamoto says, checking his nails. Shiki checks Kazamoto’s nails too. They’ve been filed down to points. Shiki imagines that makes it hard to type. And operate a smartphone. And type. And wipe his ass. And hold a pen. But who is he to tell Kazamoto how to live his life?

“Business.”

Kazamoto doesn’t look terribly surprised. “Ah, and here I thought that after all these years of working with each other, you finally wanted to be friends.”

Shiki is unimpressed and spent the afternoon dowsing a warehouse for a stupid alligator with steak and would have shoved Kazamoto out of the way and twisted his face into his ass so he could smell his own shit if Kazamoto wasn’t close enough to him in rank to make that a bad idea.“Can I come in?”

Kazamoto doesn’t budge. “What business do you have?”

“The kind that can’t be discussed in a hallway.” Kazamoto looks at him levelly. No, not _looks._ He stares Shiki down like this is some sort of contest of wills. Maybe it is.

There’s a crash from behind the door, followed by the sound of tinkling glass.

Kazamoto gives a pale and frigid smile and starts to swing the door closed. “I don’t think my apartment is the best place to talk business at the moment, if you’ll come back later—”

Shiki catches the door with his foot and gives a frigid smile all his own. “It can’t wait.”

Kazamoto manages to make his smile several degrees colder. “I know that being an Alpha makes your balls bigger than anyone else’s and you more important than little peon Betas, but if you think—”

Shiki doesn’t know what he’s supposed to t _hink_ , because he remembers that he’s supposed to be an Alpha and decides to _do_ , and shoulders the door open. He distantly notes that it’s very well decorated, in a cozy cat-lady sort of way. But most of his attention is grabbed by the overgrown, bone-white lizard chewing contentedly on what probably used to be a pillow.

“I _think,_ ” Shiki says, slowly and carefully, “that if you want to be more than a peon _anything_ for the rest of your short, _short_ life, you will help me wrangle this alligator to its proper location.”

Kazamoto doesn’t seem happy with this proposition, going as far as to open his mouth to argue.

And then _he actually argues._

“Are you aware of what this alligator went through while you were busy nailing a business associate?” Kazamoto spits.

“Probably sitting in a box in a warehouse munching on prime quality dollar store meat and then being kidnapped by you. It must have been very stressful.”

“Sitting in its own waste with no natural light. That’s animal cruelty, you know.”

Shiki spends a moment looking for the fucks he’s supposed to give. He comes up empty.

“I don’t see why you care. Is it your cousin or something?”

One of Shiki’s men snickers and Kazamoto turns an interesting shade of puce before settling down into a frigid sort of ice-pale.

Ooops. Oh well. Not like he and Kazamoto had a stellar working relationship before.

Now he just needs to cajole a several hundred pound carnivore out of the apartment, into an elevator, and into a white-paneled van.

Then he has to drive it across town and soothe an irate client. Which isn’t a fun time when he’s on time with the goods, because there’s always _something_ wrong to these privileged types.

But Shiki’s tired. A sort of tired that’s starting to settle into his bones and weigh down his muscles and he wants nothing more than to fall into bed and fall into something comfortable. Like a nice coma.

“You know what?” Shiki says. “Give me a couple thousand. We’ll forget this ever happened. You keep the damn crocodile.”

“Alligator.”

“Whatever.”

“That’s an awful lot of money for _me_ to cleanse _your_ conscious.”

“Actually, it’s a small price to cover for an executive that’s interfering directly in a lucrative family business.”

Kazamoto’s not as good as hiding his emotions as he thinks he is. He looks hopeful, but he’s trying so hard to tuck it under a mask that Shiki gives him the benefit of the doubt.

Kazamoto pays him in unmarked bills in a grimy suitcase, and Shiki chooses to not question the origin of either, and gets a door this side of slammed in his face and the prospect of one of the hardest conversations in his life.

In the end, though. It’s rather simple.

“The alligator is dead,” he says over a cucumber sandwich in a British-style tea-house. And he slides over a battered suitcase lighter a couple thousand for his trouble, calls it a refund, and skedaddles before anything metallic or pointy can find its way into his spine.

Work goes so horribly he almost forgets what he has to come home to.

In fact, he entirely forgets, and Izaya casually sprawled on the couch makes some small fantasy he had of coming home and crashing on the couch die a quick but painful death.

“Welcome home, sweetness!” Izaya says, swinging so he’s sitting somewhat properly. “How was work?”

Shiki doesn’t _jump,_ because he’s _not_ scared. “What are you doing here?”

Izaya gives him a look complete with an entirely too bright smile.“I moved in, snookums. ” His fingers are twitching on his laptop, but they’re not typing.

Shiki rubs his face with his hands. Then does it again. Then counts to three, before putting them back at his sides. “Why?”

“We discussed it earlier,” Izaya says, gleefully, hands relaxing. “Remember, at breakfast? After spending our first heat together, you were _finally_ ready to take the next step into domesticity and asked me to move into your territory. It was very romantic and Alpha of you, I must say.”

“I need a drink,” Shiki mutters, shuffling off into the kitchen.

“And a tea for me, if you would be so kind,” Izaya says flippantly over the sound of tapping keys.

He is not so kind.

He has half a mind to go back in and tell Izaya off before bodily carting him out of the apartment.

But his other half is louder and screams that Izaya _knows._ It’s not the _worst_ case scenario, but it’s not far from it either. Having Izaya know something is a breath away from the entire city knowing, depending on his whims.

And Izaya is changeable as the sea, and nowhere near as predictable.

The wise thing to do would be to make the tea and poison it. Like he’s in a fairytale.

The coffee machine grunts and splutters as coffee putters down into the pot.

Izaya’s death would leave a vacuum in the city power structure that really can’t exist if the Awakusu-kai want to consider moving forward as any sort of unit.

Killing him would be more trouble than it’s worth, as it stands.

At least Izaya seems smart enough to know that at the moment, he holds _power_ over Shiki that evaporates as soon as Shiki’s secret is out.

And what would the Awakusu-kai _do?_ Would they kill him? Cast him out? Bid him out to the one of the top brass to keep him in the family and away from shame? It’s hard to know what the Awakusu-kai might do. There’s no precedent.

But for some ungodly reason, for all the things that Shiki would do to keep that sort of information from getting out, to keep him from becoming lower than a gutter rat in social standing, Izaya wants to move in.

It’s suspicious. He should be cautious. He should turn Izaya out on his ear.

But.

It would keep Izaya close. Close enough to watch.

Who’s he kidding, Izaya can’t be _watched_ , he’s the _watcher._

But it’s worth a shot, all the same. There’s no other real option available to him, for now. Knee-jerk reaction to murder Izaya aside, because he’s really not Akabayashi, best case is to play with what Izaya wants. For now.

Sometimes, it really blows to not be psychotic killer of the group. But he’d hate to join the jockey race between Aozaki and Akabayashi for it, so level-headed one it is.

He takes a fortifying sip of coffee and walks back out to face the music.

Until the music becomes something stripper-sexy like and he can’t.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Izaya stretches, a long, full-body thing that reminds Shiki of a cat. “Getting ready for bed?”

It’s very sexy. It would be sexier _not on his pillows._

No, wait. It’s still very sexy just—

“Get out of my bed?”

“But _Shiki,_ ” Izaya purrs, but his hands are twisting into the pillowcase and he’s beginning to bring his knees to his chest, “where else would I sleep? There’s no other beds. Not exactly a welcoming environment, is it?”

He didn’t think about it. He expected Izaya to leave hours ago, dropping this whole farce once he saw how far Shiki was willing to go. “On the couch.”

“But Shiki,” Izaya says, wiggling closer and not at all off the bed. One of his rings glimmer as he spins it around his thumb. “This is where most of the benefits come in.”

Oh.

“Not that,” Izaya says hastily, watching Shiki’s expression become increasingly close to wrathful. “Not that I, of course, would _object_ to sex, it’s really quite spectacular, and I’ve enjoyed myself immensely, not to say that—”

“The _point,_ Orihara?”

“Smell.” Shiki raises an eyebrow. “Sleep together means that you would absolutely _reek_ of Alpha. I would smell of Omega. That’s the whole point of this exercise, ne?”

“And smelling like _you_ would be completely incidental, of course.”

Izaya’s smirk loses about 10 watts, but doesn’t slink entirely away. “I mean, yes but—”

“So this isn’t about owning a cute Omega to come home to?”

Izaya smirk runs away entirely. The ring spins faster. “I wouldn’t call you _cute,_ per se. That is, not particularly, no.”

“Hm. Could have fooled me.”

Izaya cocks his head. The ring doesn’t stop spinning. “The reality is, that if I wanted to, I could buy one.”

“I believe you just did.” Shiki says, gesturing broadly. “Not that it wasn’t well-played, I can almost respect that.” For all he wants to introduce Izaya’s face to the granite counter.

“I don’t want that.”

No.

Breathe.

Relax the shoulders.

Subsume the rage. _Look._

Izaya is twisting that ring. The body language? He’s small, much smaller than usual. His hands aren’t flying about. He’s wrong-footed and stuttering, but trying to hide it.

Press the advantage.

“What is it that you _do_ want, Izaya?” Shiki says, aware that he’s not exactly wearing a shirt, that he’s sprawled in one of the most intimate places in his home, trying to have a heart-to-heart with a man that probably hasn’t been able to see his clearly in years, if ever.

“Isn’t it obvious? ” Izaya says, laying on his stomach, kicking his legs behind him like a schoolgirl. He’s trying to correct his body language, but he’s over-correcting. Nothing about it looks natural. “I’m trying to pass as an Omega. Thought I made it rather clear.”

“And why would you want that?”

“You miss the advantages because you’re so caught up in the negatives.” _don’t strangle him don’t strangle him “_ The entire world underestimates you, wants to coddle you despite knowing it’s a bad idea.” Izaya’s pretending to check his nails and Shiki recognizes it as one of his own mannerisms. He’s feeling an emotion, but Shiki’s not too keen to look at it too directly at the moment. “In my line of work, that’s a _huge_ advantage. There is the down side, of course, that you have to follow through with the ruse in your personal life—” _Izaya panting, eyelids fluttering, nails biting into Shiki’s shoulders._ He wonders what part of it is the _ruse “—_ but altogether, I’d say it’s something that worth it in the end, no?”

“So, you’re pretending to be an Omega,” Shiki says slowly, pieces coming together slowly, “because you want _cuddles?_ ”

Izaya doesn’t blush, but it’s a very near thing, and he sticks his nose up in the air instead like he thinks he can talk his way out of this one. “I—”

“No,” Shiki says. “I’m telling you. And you are _blackmailing_ me into a relationship because you know I’ll provide you what you need and won’t tell anyone your secret.”

“I do believe I already mentioned it was for the scent, ne?”

“Bullshit. If it was for the scent, we’d sleep with each other’s shirts or some shit. You wouldn’t have to live in my apartment, sleep in my bed, _eat my food.”_

“Well, if you’re so set—” Izaya’s trying to slither off the bed now, but Shiki grabs his ankle, because no one tries to slither into a relationship with him without him noticing. The previous six hours notwithstanding.

“I’ve. Had. A. Long. Day.” Shiki tugs Izaya closer with each word. He politely ignores the erection starting to tent Izaya’s pants and the sort of half-lid expression Izaya’s started to get. “Cut the bullshit. You’re asking me for a relationship.”

“I—”

“You are. In your twisted little way.” There’s a wild sort of energy in his veins, because _this_ might as well happen. “Sure. Let’s give this a go,” the wild part says. The part that only today was ready to channel the spirit of Steve Irwin and wrestle an alligator _and_ Kazamoto to the floor. “Stay on your side of the bed, and we won’t have an problems.”

Izaya does not stay on his side of the bed.

Shiki tries really hard to have a problem, but he’s _nuzzling_ his shoulder and making soft little noises.

Shiki has promotions of his doom and falls into a peaceful sleep.

Akabayashi’s eyebrows travel all the way up to his hairline when Shiki goes in the next morning. He sniffs Shiki as he walks by like he’s doing a very enthusiastic line of illicit drugs and smirks.

Knowingly.

Bastard.

And that’s all the reaction he gets.

Amazing, considering he reeks of Izaya from head to toe and didn’t dare to put on any of his Alpha in a Spray Can, for fear of completely overwhelming everyone and everything in his path.

He hasn’t _seen_ flowers actually wilt when someone passes.

He’s not going to be the first.

But other than Akabayashi being a tremendous asshole, living with Izaya is _not_ _awful_ , for some reason.

It should be, there’s a living, breathing mess-making machine eating at his table and washing in his shower and sleeping in his bed.

But it’s _nice_.

Not that he’d ever admit it under pain of injury.

Izaya is tapping away at a laptop when he gets back, as he always is. “Welcome home, honey, how was work?” Izaya says, in that awful perky voice he uses that he _knows_ grates a little.

 _Always,_ he says. Like this is their lives, ingrained and settled like they’re an old married couple.

It’s been a week.

“Absolutely fantastic,” Shiki says, dry as he can manage. “I brought takeout.”

“Ooh, food,” Izaya actually looks up from his laptop. “Any for me?”

“No, I thought I’d eat it all in front of you and just make you watch.”

“What a cruel, cruel man you are,” Izaya says, already popping open a box and taking a bite. If there’s anything Izaya possesses, it’s that famous Alpha appetite. He’s through a box and a half before Shiki risks fingers trying to retrieve his own food.

“Terribly.”

He comes home one day to Izaya sitting on the floor amidst a pile of rice, holding one grain like it might hold the secrets of the universe if he could just squint enough to see the letter it’s written in.

Which, altogether, is not an unexpected Izaya behavior. Once, Shiki came home to a hundred peaches littering the ground, Izaya carefully examining each one. He still hasn’t received a good answer for that one.

What _is_ unexpected is the sheepish look Izaya shoots him, like a kitten that shat in the coffee beans but knows it’s too cute to get into trouble.

It’s then that Shiki recognizes the pills he still takes every morning in a feverish hope that one heat was a fluke and it won’t ever happen again.

“What are you doing?” Shiki says, because Izaya is several kinds of crazy but he’s also usually right. And because he’s had a long day and anything short ofIzaya crushing them and doing lines or rolling around naked isn’t his problem. Might even be his benefit. Depends on the quality of the naked.

“I’m investigating your pills,” Izaya says with a lot of confidence.

“I see,” Shiki says, stepping over them so he can get into the kitchen and make some sweet, glorious coffee. He’s recently slipped into his coffee maker’s good graces and he’d loathe to lose them so soon.

Izaya trails him into the kitchen. “Are you at all interested in what I found? It is of a rather personal nature.”

Shiki sips contemplatively at his coffee. “No.”

“Odd. I’d think you’d be chomping at the bit to find out what’s exactly in these pills.”

Izaya glides into the kitchen, all graceful steps and Cheshire grins.

He’s not buying the bluff. Damn.

“And you gleaned all that from staring at it? Not that I have a fancy college degree, but I do believe you need some equipment to check chemical compositions.”

“I sent it off,” Izaya says dismissively, eyes not dimming in the least. “Highly reliable, nothing that can be traced back to you, of course.”

“How kind of you.”

“You want to know what I found?”

Shiki’s tempted to say ‘no,’ see if he can drive the price down. But too many ‘no’s and he might lose—

“Do you know how Omega birth control and suppressants usually works?” Izaya doesn’t wait for an answer. “Suppressants. Don’t actually _stop_ ovulation, but it crosses the blood-brain barrier to bind to the proteins that cause the heat ‘haze.’ Birth control. It mimics pregnancy hormones. It tricks the body into thinking it’s already pregnant, so it doesn’t need a heat. It’d just be more jizz, more rough sex when the body is in a delicate condition. Instead,” Izaya says, putting a hand against Shiki’s neck, taking a pulse, “it focuses on keeping the mate that fathered the baby close by. The hormones change to elicit the urge to protect, especially in Alphas. Convenient, ne?”

“I know all this,” Shiki says, even though he didn’t. “I had the same high school classes you did.” Which is true, but he wasn’t exactly _attending_ when the specifics of biology came up.

“Mhm,” Izaya agrees, popping a thermometer in his mouth. “Both allow for Omegas to smell desirable without having to put out. To manipulate, if you’re the loudest coalition in the government. Loud being a relative term, it’s all behind closed doors.”

That he didn’t know.

“I thought it was found to cause increased rates of cancer?”

Izaya smirks. “Buying the official party line, are we? I must say, not something that I’d expect from you.” Izaya pulls the thermometer out, checking it briefly. Shiki doesn’t know if it’s a good or bad reading, and doesn’t particularly care, just happy to have his coffee funnel free again. “It does. But,” Izaya says, pointing a long finger, “no more than in any other population with, shall we say, unsafe sexual practices.”

Shiki sips his coffee. Contemplates this. “You mean—”

“All instances of cancer can be traced back to the STDs a group of suddenly sexual liberated adults had, yes. But let’s leave the politics behind for another day shall we? Let’s bring this back to you.”

Shiki’s pretty sure that these politics are his daily life. But Izaya’s on a roll.

“You see, you’d never be able to pass as an Alpha on birth control, you’d reek.”

Izaya pauses. And Shiki sips his coffee and politely asks the question Izaya wants him to.

“Then what have I been taking?”

“The million dollar question,” Izaya says, teeth flashing. “See, you’d need something that interferes with your endocrine system. Something that would prevent you from producing those hormones in the first place, perhaps even damage the system itself.”

“And that would be?”

Izaya looks truly excited, eye teeth flashing his lips are spread so wide. “Cocaine.”

“It used to be used to commune with spirits,” Izaya says, heels banging against the bathroom cabinets as Shiki resolutely flushes capsule after capsule of little white pills down the toilet.

It hurts, to see a lifeline and that money flow away.

“Fascinating, but I don’t think I have any spirits I particularly want to commune with.”

Another bottle, another flush.

“I’m surprised at you, there’s a lot of people that would pay a lot of money for that.” Izaya cocks his head, “perhaps you’re scared of Akabayashi?”

Izaya’s heels continue to bang like drums in an off time beat.

He looks like a child at a—no.

No, that’s not right. He was fooled by the sheen, too caught up in himself. Izaya’s not _excited,_ he’s _nervous._ His thumb is working at the ring again, around and around. Nervous of what? Shiki’s reaction? Shiki?

“Have you ever met a drug addict, Izaya?”

Another flush.

“Of course I have, there’s the best sources for some— Oh, I see. You’re afraid of crawling back to your stash. Well,” Izaya says, clapping his hands. He’s not afraid of _Shiki,_ then. Afraid he’ll leave? Perhaps. Hard to say. “I doubt it’ll be that bad. It was only a little bit.”

It is, in fact, the worst experience of Shiki’s life.

He wakes up the next morning and he’s fine. He stretches his limbs out cautiously from where Izaya’s curled around him to find them all present and accounted for, none of them having fallen off in the night.

He makes coffee, like he usually does. He showers, like he usually does. He stutters a bit when years of habit make him reach for the pill bottle that isn’t there, but he’s fine. He just straightens his coat and moves on.

He goes to work and he’s fine.

“Shiki,” Akabayashi greets him. “Boss isn’t happy about the alligator dying.”

Shiki grunts an affirmation.

Akabayashi pauses like he’s waiting for Shiki to fill the silence. “Kazamoto made some recommendations on improving animal transportation. Wrote up a document, but wants to meet with you _personally_ to implement the changes.”

Shiki grunts again, looking for the sugar. There’s a bit of hunger starting to gnaw at the edges of his stomach.

“Shiki.”

“What?”

“Shiki.”

“ _What?”_

“Shiki.”

Shiki turns to snap at Akabayashi, but he’s right there, in his face. Breathing the same air. Close enough that Shiki can see the faint edges of scars surrounding the empty socket through Akabayashi’s sunglasses. Close enough that if there was sexual tension, they’d be mere moments from ripping each other’s clothes off.

Shiki stumbles back and lifts his hands at the same time to push Akabayashi away, but his wrists get caught into two large hands.

Shiki’s never felt any real _fear_ around Akabayashi, only wariness and a sort of respect for his talents, such as they are, and a healthy amount out of frustration.

A wallop of frustration sprinkled with annoyance.

He’s not exactly afraid right now, either, though he probably should be. Instead, his sex drive stuttering like an engine that just won’t turn but really, really wants to.

He’s suddenly aware that Akabayashi is _stronger_ than him. Is _larger_ than him. Has certainly _murdered_ more than he has. Ooh, there’s the fear, it was just hiding behind the kink he always secretly knew he had.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Shiki. Go home.” Akabayashi looks hard in a way Shiki’s never seen him before. He really does look like a man that would rip out his own eye to impress a woman. Or just rip out his own eye.

“Unlike you, I actually have work to do—”

Akabayashi’s sniff at his neck makes him go tense enough to shatter. Oh god. He smells like Omega now, doesn’t he? It’s the damnable arousal, isn’t it?Sleeping with Izaya wasn’t enough, he shouldn’t have showered. He shouldn’t have skipped the Alpha in a Can. He shouldn’t have stopped the pills, _fuck_ that they were cocaine he’d choose half a lifespan over half a life any day.

“What do you think—”

“You think I don’t recognize withdrawal?” And it’s the oddest thing, to feel relief and trepidation in such equal measures. “Must say, I didn’t take you for the type.”

Oh, shit. Akabayashi’s hatred of the drug trafficking, well, _everything._ “It’s not like I _knew,_ ” Shiki’s mouth says before his brain can stop it, since it’s busy working its way through a swamp of some sort, bogged down.

That doesn’t seem to make Akabayashi happier at all.

“What do you _mean_ —”

The sound of the door opening stops Akabayashi in his tracks, and he pulls Shiki into his own office like he’s nothing but a rag doll.

It’s kinda hot. In an asshole-ish sort of way.

Akabayashi plops Shiki on the couch that he’s alternatively terrorized underlings and screwed Izaya stupid on and it’s giving him very mixed messages and does nothing for his poor nervous system trying to decide if he needs to be seductively stripping or cowering in fear.

Akabayashi leans against his desk, lighting up. “Explain.”

“Pardon?”

“You,” Akabayashi stabs his cigarette at Shiki, “smell like withdrawal, like your body’s _crying._ You spent ten minutes looking for the sugar that you moved to get at your special coffee beans that you think we don’t know about. Then you said you didn’t know it was coke. So. Why did you not know it was coke?”

“I misspoke,” Shiki says, “I—”

“You didn’t.” Akabayashi takes a long drag. “You’re not clever enough to lie to me right now, so don’t even try. Your brain feels like it’s made of cotton, swimming in molasses. Your heart feels like it’s only beating once every five minutes. So.” Akabayashi spreads his hands. “Explain. If it makes the story easier to tell, I already know you’re an Omega.”

Shiki’s heart stops. Then thinks _fuck it,_ because it’s really, really hard to think.

“What I thought were suppressants turned out to be coke.” His hand shakes as he reaches for his own pack of cigarettes, the flame on his lighter flickering as his thumb struggles to keep the button depressed.

“So Orihara didn’t slip something into your drink for some coked up sex?”

“He’s the one that told me they were cocaine.”

“And he’s got no motives— No.” Akabayashi rubs his face. “Stopping real suppressants wouldn’t give you this sort of withdrawal. Can’t believe you just believed him, though. You’re usually such a paranoid bastard.”

“What does he have to gain?”

“An Omega free for the plucking?”

“Could have had that anyway, they were failing me.”

“See,” Akabayashi says, sitting next to him on the fucking couch. The fear couch. “This is why I hate the drug trade. Fucks Omegas over all the time, hundreds out there with stories just like yours.” Akabayashi sighs. “Go home. It’s not gonna be pretty.”

“I’m fine.”

By lunch he is categorically Not Fine.

He tries to pour coffee, but it keeps hitting his hand instead and he drops the pot to make it stop. He gives a brief protest when Akabayashi bundles him into a car, but stops when Akabayashi says, “I’ll cover for you,” because not doing work is always better than _doing_ work, and he doesn’t feel up to it anyway.

He’s not aware of time after that.

“Shiki. Shiki. _Shiki.”_

There’s something really annoying shaking him. He wishes it would stop, it’s gonna make him throw chunks, but it smells familiar and like _safety. “Haruya,_ damn it.”

“Wha?”

He doesn’t want to be awake. He feels _sticky._

“I’m calling a doctor, taking you to the hospital.”

“ _No.”_ Shiki sits up, and it takes a while to parse what he sees. Izaya, crouching next to him, phone in hand.

“You could _die,”_ Izaya says, a small incredulous smile on his face.

“Then _let me.”_

“You don’t mean that. I’ve heard many, many say that over the years. They never mean it.”

“I do.” Shiki pushes to his feet, and he recognizes a sour smell as vomit. “I’d rather fucking die than. Be sold to the highest damn bidder. Make babies for the rest of my pathetic _life.”_

He stumbles into the bathroom and flips on the lights and then right back off because the light is _brutally_ bright. He stumbles into the shower and just, turns it on, not bothering to undress and his clothes become heavy with water.

Pale hands slide off his coat and start in on his buttons and he doesn’t stop Izaya, lets him do what he will. Not like he hasn’t seen it all anyway. Shiki slides to sit on rapidly warming tile, and he’s dimly aware of another body climbing into the shower with him.

“Why are you here?”

Izaya sits curled into himself, chin on his knees. “I told you, I’m moving into—”

Shiki waves his hand like he can bat Izaya’s excuses out of the air. “No. Why are you _here?_ Suddenly grow compassion for you fellow man?”

“It’s natural for an Alpha to help an Omega in a time of crisis. Basic biology.”

Shiki laughs and it feels cold as it leaves his throat. “No it’s not. Not to this level. Try again.”

“If you died, I’d lose my contact in the Awakusu-kai.”

“Nope. You’d get a new one.” And then a thought occurs. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Of course I do,” Izaya says indignantly. “This was my idea.”

“You didn’t know you were asking me for a relationship,” Shiki points out. “You probably don’t know why you spend time in my closet making sure all my clothes smell like you, either.”

“I—”

“It’s okay if you love me,” Shiki tells him. “I’m quite the catch.”

Then he throws up on Izaya to prove it.

He wakes up one Saturday morning six days after flushing little grains of white rice down the toilet with Izaya tangled around him so close that he’s not entirely sure they’re two separate people with two seperate beating hearts.

Like he does every damn morning.

It’s comforting and warm and there’s definitely a dick poking his ass.

Like every morning.

There’s also painful twang in his lower abdomen and a loose, jiggly feeling like all his joints weren’t altogether anchored in the right place.

Maybe if he just moves _slowly_ enough, the withdrawal won’t see him and he’ll be okay.

It’s stupid, sure, but who the hell actually knows how neuroscience works?

He shifts and the twang morphs into something warm and he’s hyper aware of _exactly_ where Izaya’s brushing up against him and that he’s already hard and _wants_ Shiki, even unconscious.

And it feels _amazing._

Izaya curls into it, snuggling and nuzzling as Shiki runs his hands through his soft hair and down his spine, and sleepily grinds into Shiki to show his appreciation.

And then he wakes up and shoots away so fast that he falls off the the bed.

Izaya’s suspicious eyes peer at him from the edge of the bed like a crocodile that discovered the chickadee it was watching had fangs.

“Izaya,” Shiki says, and perhaps it has more of a whine than he intends. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, no,” Izaya says, wagging his finger, “I’m not falling for it.”

“Falling for what?”

“You’re a _bear_ in the mornings. You _never_ want morning sex.” When did Izaya try for morning sex? That sounds _amazing._ “This,” Izaya gestures at Shiki vaguely, “this _seduction—”_

“I’m _hardly—”_

 _“_ I’m not getting you more coke.”

“Hold the hell up,” Shiki says, crawling closer, “if I was _seducing_ you, you wouldn’t have time to bitch about it, you’d be so turned on you couldn’t form words.”

Izaya does not look as cowed as he should. “Then what—” his eyes go wide and he takes a larger sniff, right at the junction of Shiki’s neck. “You’re in heat.” Then nuzzles closer. Then tackles him to the bed and resumes trying to subsume him octopus style. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

Well, _fuck._

 _“_ You can’t even microwave leftovers without breaking something.”

“Shhh,” Izaya says, not comfortingly. “I’ll order take out. For everything. I noticed you didn’t have any sex toys—”

“What do you mean? I have _tons._ ”

“All the novels says Omegas use sex toys during their heats to stave off the abhorrent emptiness of not have an Alpha around—wait what?”

 _“_ I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Then he doesn’t think.

He wakes up three days later next to a bright pink dildo still in the box, aching and feeling more filthy than he ever has to Izaya in a gas mask, patting his shoulder and repeating “there, there” in the most unsympathetic tone he’s ever heard.


End file.
